Part 5 (1/2)

”It's a little better than sleeping in the car,” the aunt said again. ”A lot warmer.”

”Tell a story, Dad,” said Bunny. ”You didn't tell us a story for about a hundred years.”

[54] Suns.h.i.+ne rushed at Quoyle, grabbed his s.h.i.+rt, hauling herself up into his lap, thumb in her mouth before she even leaned against his chest where she could hear the creaking sounds of his breathing, the thump of his heart, gurglings and squeals from his stomach.

”Not yet, not yet,” said Quoyle. ”Everybody brush their teeth. Everybody wash their face.”

”And say your prayers,” said the aunt.

”I don't know any,” Suns.h.i.+ne blubbed.

”That's all right,” said Quoyle, sitting in the chair beside the bed.

”Let's see. This is a story about hammers and wood.”

”No, Dad! Not hammers and wood! Tell a good story.”

”About what?” said Quoyle hopelessly, as though his fountain of invention was dry.

”Moose,” said Bunny. ”A moose and some roads. Long roads.”

”And a dog. Like Warren.”

”A nice dog, Dad. A grey dog.”

And so Quoyle began. ”Once there was a moose, a very poor, thin, lonely moose who lived on a rocky hill where only bitter leaves grew and bushes with spiky branches. One day a red motor car drove past. In the backseat was a grey gypsy dog wearing a gold earring.”

In the night Bunny woke in nightmare, sobbed while Quoyle rocked her back and forth and said ”It's only a bad dream, only a bad dream, it's not real.”

”The Old Hag's got her,” muttered the aunt. But Quoyle kept on rocking, for the Old Hag knew where to find him, too. Fragments of Petal embedded in every hour of the night.

Warren made bursting noises under the bed. A rancorous stench. Dog Farts Fell Family of Four.

A morning of hurling snow. Stupendous snores beyond the walls. Quoyle dressed and went to the door. Could not find the doork.n.o.b. Crept around looking under the bed, in the bathroom, [55] in their luggage, in the jammed drawers of Bibles. One of the kids must have brought it into bed with her, he thought, but when they were up there was no k.n.o.b. He pounded on the door to attract attention, but got a shout from an adjacent wall to ”shut the f.u.c.k up or I'll bash yer.” The aunt jiggled the phone receiver, hoping for life restored. Dead. The phone book was a 1972 Ontario directory. Many pages ripped out.

”My eyes hurt,” said Bunny. Both children had reddened, matter-filled eyes.

For an imprisoned hour they watched the fading storm and the snowplows, banged on the door, called ”h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo.” Both plastic penguins were broken. Quoyle wanted to break the door down. The aunt wrote a message on a pillowcase and hung it in the window. HELP. LOCKED IN ROOM 999. TELEPHONE DEAD HELP. LOCKED IN ROOM 999. TELEPHONE DEAD.

The desk clerk opened the door. Looked at them with eyes like taillights.

”All you do is push the alarm b.u.t.ton. Somebody come right away.” Pointed to a switch near the ceiling. Reached up and flicked it. A clangor filled the motel and set off wall pounding until the motel vibrated. The clerk rubbed his eyes like a television actor seeing a miracle.

The storm persisted another day, winds shrieking, drifting the main highway.

”I like a storm, but this is more than enough,” said the aunt, her hair down over one ear from collision with the chandelier, ”and if I ever get out of this motel I will lead a good life, go to church regularly, bake bread twice a week and never let the dirty dishes stand. I'll never go out with my legs bare, so help me, just let me get out of here. I forgot what it's like, but it comes back to me now.”

In the night it turned to rain, the wind came from the south, warm and with a smell of creamy milk.

7.

The Gammy Bird The common eider is called ”gammy bird” in Newfoundland for its habit of gathering in flocks for sociable quacking sessions.

The name is related to the days of sail, when two s.h.i.+ps falling in with each other at sea would back their yards and shout the news. The s.h.i.+p to windward would back her main yards and the one to leeward her foreyards for close maneuvering.

This was gamming gamming.

A WOMAN in a rain slicker, holding the hand of a child, was walking on the verge of the road. As Quoyle's station wagon came abreast she stared at the wet car. The stranger. He lifted his hand a few inches but she had already dropped her gaze. The child's flat face. Red boots. And he was past. in a rain slicker, holding the hand of a child, was walking on the verge of the road. As Quoyle's station wagon came abreast she stared at the wet car. The stranger. He lifted his hand a few inches but she had already dropped her gaze. The child's flat face. Red boots. And he was past.

The road to Flour Sack Cove shot uphill from Killick-Claw, over the height of land, then plunged toward houses, a few hauled-up boats. Fish flakes, scaffolds of peeled spruce from the old days of making salt cod. He pa.s.sed a house painted white and red. The door dead center. A straggle of docks and fishermen's storage sheds. Humped rocks spread with veils of net.

No doubt about the newspaper office. There was a weathered teak panel nailed above the door. THE GAMMY BIRD THE GAMMY BIRD over a painting [57] of a quacking eider duck. Parked in front of the building were two trucks, a rusted, late-model Dodge and an older but gleaming Toyota. over a painting [57] of a quacking eider duck. Parked in front of the building were two trucks, a rusted, late-model Dodge and an older but gleaming Toyota.

From inside, shouting. The door snapped inward. A man jumped past, got in the Toyota. The tail pipe vibrated. The engine choked a little and fell silent as though embarra.s.sed. The man looked at Quoyle. Got out of the truck and came at him with his hand. Acne scars corrugated the cheeks.

”As you see,” he said, ”sometimes you can't get away. I'm Tert Card, the b.l.o.o.d.y so-called managing editor, copy editor, rewrite man, mechanicals, ad makeup department, mail and distribution chief, snow shoveler. And you are either a big advertiser come to take out a four-page spread to proclaim the values of your warehouse of left-footed j.a.panese boots, or you are the breathlessly awaited Mr. Quoyle. Which is it?” His voice querulous in complaint. For the devil had long ago taken a s.h.i.+ne to Tert Card, filled him like a cream horn with itch and irritation. His middle initial was X. Face like cottage cheese clawed with a fork.

”Quoyle.”

”Come in then, Quoyle, and meet the band of brigands, the worst of them d.a.m.n Nutbeem and his strangling hands. Himself, Mr. Jack Buggit, is up at the house having charms said over his scrawny chest to clear out a wonderful acc.u.mulation of phlegm which he's been hawking for a week.” Could have been declaiming from a stage.

”This's the so-called newsroom,” sneered Card. ”And there's Billy Pretty,” pointing, as though to a landmark. ”He's an old fish dog.” Billy Pretty small, late in his seventh decade. Sitting at a table, the wall behind him covered with oilcloth the color of insect wings. His face: wood engraved with fanned lines. Blue eyes in tilted eye cases, heavy lids. His cheek pillows pushed up by a thin, slanting smile, a fine channel like a scar from nose to upper lip. Bushy eyebrows, a roach of hair the color of an antique watch.

His table swayed when he leaned on it, was covered with a church bazaar display. Quoyle saw baskets, wooden b.u.t.terflies, babies' booties in dime-store nylon.

”Billy Pretty, does the Home News page. He's got hundreds [58] of correspondents. He gets treasures in the mail, as you see. There's a stream of people after him, sending him things.”

”Ar,” said Billy Pretty. ”Remember the omaloor that brought me some decorated turr's eggs? Hand painted with scenic views. Bust in the night all over the desk. A stink in here for a year afterward.” Wiped his fingers on his diamond-pattern gansey, mended in the elbows and spotted with white n.o.bs of glue and paper specks. ” 'Omaloor?' As in Omaloor Bay?”

”Oh yes. An omaloor-big, stun, clumsy, witless, simpleminded type of a fellow. There used to be crowds of them on the other side of the bay,” he gestured toward Quoyle's Point, ”so they named it after them.” Winked at Quoyle. Who wondered if he should smile. Did smile.

Near the window a man listened to a radio. His b.u.t.tery hair swept behind ears. Eyes pinched close, a mustache. A packet of imported dates on his desk. He stood up to shake Quoyle's hand. Gangled. Plaid bow tie and ratty pullover. The British accent strained through his splayed nose.

”Nutbeem,” he said. ”Nutbeem of the Arctic.” Threw Quoyle a half-salute, imitation of a character in some yellowed war movie.

”That's B. Beaufield Nutbeem,” said Tert Card, ”miserable ugly Brit cast away on the inhospitable Newfoundland sh.o.r.e a year ago and still here. Among other things, imagines he's the foreign news chief. Steals every story off the radio and rewrites it in his plummy style.”